


Wings of a Gull

by blasted_heath



Series: Wings of a Gull [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, M/M, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 18:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17269091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasted_heath/pseuds/blasted_heath
Summary: Did the fandom need another post-Carnivale story? Probably not! But this is my headcanon and I couldn't stop thinking about it, so here it is. I wrote this for the 12 Days of Carnivale New Years prompt.Chapter 1 is relatively heavy on the gore factor, so if that's not your thing, you can skip to chapter 2.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The survivors of Carnivale bury their dead, and both James and Francis are plagued by grisly memories.

They had burned the dead. 

That is to say, the dead had burned, locked in the unholy funeral pyre that was Carnivale. They had cried out for help while they were beaten down by their maddened comrades, blocked from escape on all sides by walls of fire and ice. Their strangled shouts continued as they were engulfed, martyred in an unintended blood sacrifice to the coming of dawn. Now their voices were silent, but they haunted the Arctic air yet, assailing the senses of the living with the stench of the unthinkable. 

They had burned once already, _roasted_ like British beef on a Sunday, transfigured from recognizable men into masses of red and black char, nearly indistinguishable from the timbers and canvas that smouldered around their remains. And yet here Francis Crozier found himself, still, watching them burn all over again. 

\---

Francis had pulled James Fitzjames personally from the disaster, grabbing him by the wrist lest he trip, be kicked down and trampled to death like so many others. A less experienced man might expect that a loyal crew could never allow so horrid a thing to happen to one of their number, let alone a respected captain, but Francis knew what men were like when they were desperate. Any man could be but a rung in the ladder to any other’s survival, to be discarded as if they were never human. The proof, surrounding him at that moment, was inscrutable. He thought of poor Private Heather, pulled under as Sargeant Tozer, weeping, had tried alone to carry his helpless friend to safety. Heather, whom the crew had poured their efforts into keeping alive since his injury, demoted in an instant to the status of dead weight in the eyes of his fellow men, not worth their help. 

The thought tightened his grip on James’s wrist like a vice. Damned if he was going to watch his second die because he was hindered by that bloody impractical Britannia costume. It would be just like James to be done in by his theatrics, Francis thought, but it was bloody well not going to happen on his watch. He pressed himself solidly against James’s side as a means of added support, stumbling through the increasingly greasy smoke and jolted by the press of frantic bodies, feeling the breath stolen from them as they were thrust from that furnace into the welcome but also deadly Arctic night. When they emerged, he had only a moment to pull his friend into a hurried embrace, a firm hand between his shoulders and another squeezing his fingers against his sternum, before James disappeared again. He broke away and melted into the escaping human gyre, leaving Francis with the impossible task of forging some sense of order out of chaos. He was, after all, back in command, for all the good that did him or anyone else.

He maintained his station at the outer edge of blazing Carnivale tent, praying to any god that would listen that the whole thing would not collapse until everyone was out. He watched with a tightening feeling in his chest as the men milled about and found their best mates among the survivors—or didn’t. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Harry Peglar, eyes frantic but managing to maintain a deliberate course of motion, being suddenly snatched from behind into the strong arms of John Bridgens. 

It was something between guilt and relief that gnawed at his chest, seeing the two men fold into each other. Despite all his rank and affected composure, Francis knew that he was likewise a selfish man. His devotion to his crew was in earnest; he knew that to be true. He would give every ounce of his energy to preserve his men, and for the moment he was operating on fear and anger alone, observing every individual as they emerged, gasping, from the flames, and focusing on nothing other than getting them to safety until he was certain that every possible man had made it out. As a disciplined man and commanding officer, he gave no sense of favoritism. He had no time for it. But, if he could be allowed to throw discipline to the wind and hang the rules of society, he knew that there were men he would seek out first. Thomas Blanky, Jopson, James…he was a disproportionately lucky man, knowing that all three had survived. Thomas had limped over to him some time ago, and clapped a hand across Francis’s shoulder, with a wild-eyed and silent look. He and his one leg had given death the slip yet again, and he could barely process that fact himself. Francis had choked on something wordless, and could only nod his head once, fondly, at the unassailable Yorkshireman. Jopson had been spotted somewhere across the crowd, side by side with both Irving and Edward Little. And James... well, Francis had seen him safe, and suspected he was probably off in search of his old friend Le Vesconte. He ought to be angry at his second for abandoning him and his duty, but couldn’t find it within himself to begrudge the man for having human emotions.

\---

Only minutes before the disaster, Francis had appeared before his men, announcing his formidable plan for both crews to abandon the ships and make an 800 mile journey to Back’s Fish River. He had spoken of home, of Britain and of family—and most importantly of survival. Ships are no home for men, he had said: “We have _homes_ that we must find our way back to.” Plied with drink, and goaded on by Irving’s popular ditties conveying the pleasures of rural England, the men had seemed inclined to believe him. Hopeful. They all had been hopeful—and all, just moments before a pale-painted and costumed Doctor Stanley had silently appeared before them, set himself alight, and with arms aloft had walked methodically into their midst, resembling nothing as much as a flaming automaton Christ. 

They had been three years in the ice, and the effects on their health had not gone unnoticed. But scurvy and debility be damned, those men could have all turned Herculean and cheerfully hauled every ship’s boat to the Adelaide Peninsula on the raw hope that they may one day see England’s shores again. It had been the eve of the first sunrise, a time ripe for talk of hope and of better days ahead, and in the moment Francis hadn’t been certain they could not have bloody well sprouted wings and _flown_ home. Some of them had probably had more than half a mind to try: _If I had the wings of a gull, my boys_ , Doctor McDonald had in fact led the men in song at some point in the evening, _I would spread them and fly home._

_For the weather’s rough, and the winds do blow_  
_And there’s little comfort here_  
_I’d sooner be snug in a Deptford pub_  
_Drinking of strong beer._

It had seemed incongruously lower-deck for a man of McDonald’s rank, but the men cheered him on. He must have picked it up from his days in the service of the Scottish whale fleet, and the words that combined misery with hope had tumbled richly from his lips in that deep, Scottish voice of his. If Francis had been a more religious man, he might have been able to hope that his soul, at least, might have flown home, for McDonald was numbered among the seething dead, his body slashed open, “unseamed from the nave to th’ chops” like the man who bore his name in _Macbeth_. He had been killed unwittingly, as he pushed his body against a wall of canvas and tried to force a way out, unaware that Hickey, the most unlikely of saviours stood on the other side, bearing the knife that would pierce his heart as it carved their doorway to escape. Dead, at the precise moment of possible salvation. Hope extinguished at its peak, just as it had been for every man among them. 

They had sung of a home that more than a score among them would never return to. Now, reduced, they watched in silence as the first sun of the year, a flickering light on the horizon on which they had pinned all their optimism, was kindled into existence, danced along the furthest expanse of ice, and flickered out almost as soon as it had appeared. Who among them could ever be expected to cheerfully walk from this place, at any future date?

\---

When Francis finally saw James again, the fire had nearly burned itself out, and men had begun hauling the gruesome remains of their comrades from the blasted heap. Someone had brought him his greatcoat—apparently it had not been among the vital Arctic clothing lost in Carnivale’s makeshift cloakroom—and he was wearing a Welsh wig in place of the Roman helmet from his costume. He was otherwise still dressed as Britannia. It was a contrast that would have been ridiculous in any other circumstance, had he not been crouching over a line of blackened corpses.

“James.” 

Francis announced his presence softly, placing a hand on James’s shoulder. The man started, as if he had not noticed the other approach at all. He probably hadn’t, Francis thought—James didn’t even turn his head, but when Francis knelt down to join him, he saw his expression was blank, his eyes narrow and distant, as if he hadn’t slept in days. He looked ten years older, for reasons that had nothing to do with his tangled hair and dirt-streaked complexion. The lines of sweat that had cut through the grime on his face was mixed with blood. Francis wondered whose it was. 

“You’ve done all you can for now. And you look like hell, James. You look dead on your feet. You should go back to _Erebus_ and get some rest. And get out of—” he waved his hand up and down indicating James’s incongruous outfit, “—that.”

“Can’t,” James muttered, his expression still blank, and still not looking up. “The men...” his hoarse voice cracked, “these men need names yet.”

Francis looked, doubtfully, at the bodies before him. The men were disfigured beyond recognition, and he doubted most of them could be identified with any certainty. The only man he could hope to identify was poor Private Heather, whose skull had been smashed open, long before the chaos of Carnivale had crushed other men’s bodies. His brain had been exposed already, and now, after the fire, the result was only a partial, cavernous skull. Months back, at the time of Heather’s injury, the doctors had debated whether the human skull was more akin to a pudding or a cathedral. Now Francis was more inclined to agree with McDonald. It was a cathedral, certainly, a ruin, one that had burned out and left no trace of the spirit that it had once contained. Like Saint Paul’s, he thought.

He did not voice any of these thoughts to James, of course. He was certain the same were echoing in James’s mind already. Good men, killed unwittingly by the writhing mass of their friends, or trapped and left behind. Alone in what was supposed to be a haven on the ice, without the prospect of a proper burial or even a name. Behind James’s glazed expression he could tell that the men were still screaming, shouting at him, the artist behind Carnivale, until time and place fell out of focus. Francis struggled to keep such thoughts from welling forth in his eyes, but in this one regard he was fortunate that James wasn’t looking. No one deserved to shoulder such guilt, he considered, miserably. And least of all James, the beautiful, capable man who had managed the expedition through Francis’s extended illness without complaint, and had only thought to do what he had decided, after careful consideration, was the best for his men. Hell, hosting Carnivale was an Arctic tradition, and under James’s leadership the men had pulled together probably the most stunning setup the polar regions had ever seen. It wasn’t his fault if a lonely man had set about to destroy it. He wished he could haul James to his feet and embrace him on the spot, but he knew that either James would be furious and push him away, or worse, lose all the composure he was clearly fighting to keep together. Not that there was any shame in weeping on this occasion—so many already had—but James would certainly think it a loss of dignity for himself to do so in public.

Francis swallowed hard and tried to clear any emotion, other than concern for his friend, from his throat. “We’ll need all the men to help with that. With names. Their friends might be able to identify them better than we can.”

“All the men, Francis?” James said flatly, glancing over the remains of all those who no longer counted among that number.

“Come.” Francis stood and moved his hand from James’s shoulder to his elbow, trying to coax him up. 

James pulled his arm away. “Leave me,” he muttered. “Please.” 

\---

There was no way to bury the dead, of course. The fire hole was no place for a sailor’s grave. The dead rooms were already overburdened, and if the men were to walk out of this place, all those earlier dead would need to be laid to some more fitting form of rest as well. There was no burial to be had on land or at sea. The only option, Francis had come to realize, with horror pounding in his heart, was to burn the bodies. To finish the job that Carnivale had begun. To lay them out for a funeral, and burn them all over again.

It was hardly worth trying to preserve tradition out here, Francs thought, but the men tried as best they could. The dead deserved as Christian and as British a service as could be possible under the circumstances. So they had set about sewing the bodies into hammocks, or into blankets, and laying them thus side by side, mimicking the tradition for sailors’ burial. Typically officers would have been laid in coffins, but that would serve no purpose here in the ice, and in any case death had left the men anonymous and without rank. Usually it would be the duty of a friend to prepare a body for a sailor’s grave. But now, identification was most often a futile effort, a form of guesswork based on process of elimination. The dead had been denied names, and the living denied the comfort of providing their friends with the last honoured gesture. The attempt at maintaining custom may have been necessary, may have helped the men to cope, but it was at the heart of it a farce.

Francis himself had never been an orator. The only funeral service he had ever given was for John Franklin, and even then Sir John had obligingly, if unintentionally, written his own eulogy, from which Francis only had to read. There was no time to prepare anything now, and no one possessed the energy to expect otherwise. John Bridgens, God bless the man, had at some point handed him a dog-eared book, marked to the page of a prayer for burial at sea. By lantern-light, with every man assembled, he had read the words at the feet of the dead. It had been brief, and most of the men had slipped away in silence as Francis set the long line of canvas aflame, and thus committed the remains of his men to a grave of fire and ice. It was not a sight for most men to bear. It was not a duty, even, to be usually expected of a captain in Her Majesty’s Navy, but here he was, in a God-forsaken land where he was not subject only to the rules of the service, but of the whims of nature. He remained behind, head bowed and hands clasped behind his back, while the rest made their way back to the ships.

After some time, when all lanterns but his own had faded into the distance, he became aware that he was not yet alone. Light and shadow thrown by the ghastly pyre silhouetted a single figure, sitting on a discarded crate a short distance away. James, he thought. Of course. Stretching his legs to keep the circulation going, he made his way to join his friend on that strange perch. 

“Waited for me, have you?” 

James shifted slightly to the side, but said nothing. He was staring blankly into the flames, from which the light hollowed out his eyes, and sharpened his cheekbones. Francis could see that he had ice crystals frozen in his long eyelashes, and was blinking determinedly in attempt to keep more from forming.

He tilted his head to look his companion in the eyes. “What are you thinking, James?”

The corners of his mouth turned sharply downward, but he didn’t answer.

“We should make our way back. You’ll lose some toes if you sit out here much longer.”

James looked involuntarily towards his feet, shifted them minimally, and drew his breath in loudly. “Save your worry for something else,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’m not what matters right now.”

“It’s a bit late to be telling me not to worry about you, you know. Been doing it all day.” He hadn’t meant to be so candid, but it took too much effort to be anything less than honest. “Besides, I ought to be relieved of duty permanently if I don’t worry about my men losing parts of themselves to the cold.”

“Always so eminently practical,” James muttered. “How can you possibly be thinking of personal matters, now? Do you not feel...everything...as I do? Does it not affect you?”

Francis bowed his head at the question. He’d heard it before; he knew that James might think him unfeeling because he kept his his grief private, rather than giving it voice as James did. “You’ve asked me that before, as I recall. I am aware that I’m not a very open man. It’s not one of my better traits. But I do feel it. I do. If you would look at me you might be able to see it.”

James finally did look up, and his eyebrows twitched when their eyes met. Francis could only imagine what he looked like, but he suspected it was as least as bad as the face he saw before him. He felt as if he had never slept in his life, and his eyes burned. He was sure that they had turned half red. His expression was locked in a permanent grimace that he couldn’t shake. 

“There will be time enough for mourning in the days ahead,” he said, shifting his weight so he would face James more fully. “But as I’ve found myself back in command, I am forced to think practically, as much as I may wish otherwise. Which includes, incidentally, making sure that my second doesn’t do anything rash.” Reached out and placed a hand on James’s shoulder. “Now let’s go back, hm?”

“It’s not just mourning, Francis.” James stretched his legs out before him but did not stand up. He looked back towards the fire. “I...we lost good men today. But it was not only the _men_. We’ve lost faith, now. All the morale I’d thought to salvage. And provisions and supplies, things that we needed if we are to walk out of here, and I—“

“James, if you’re going to say this was your fault, please stop before you do.”

James looked sideways at him.

“I know you think it. You’re easier to read than you might believe, at least to me.” 

James shook his head. “Carnivale was my plan. All the responsibility rested on me, and me alone. Something… _happens_ to men out here. I thought I could vent it...the darkness. But it was too late. I should have seen...”

“You couldn’t have seen anything! From Stanley? The man gave no sign. He was lonely, James. He was a lonely man, and certainly was never much of an optimist, but no one could have expected that he would...”

“Ought a captain not look to himself to find where he failed,” James interjected, “in a case of mutiny?”

“What? Well, I suppose it depends on the captain.” He shifted his hand on James’s shoulder. “But not you, James. This wasn’t mutiny. The target was not you nor your leadership.”

James was silent again, staring now into the far distance, across the ice. 

“Please, tell me what you’re thinking,” Francis inquired again. 

“Can you not see them still? There?” 

Confused, Francis looked at the fire, where the burning bodies of his men were sinking into the melting ice around them. Idly he wondered how long they would lie there, a part of the pack, as the ships now were. _They were being sent to form the nucleus of an iceberg,_ someone had told John Barrow before they had left Britain. Barrow had been warned, and yet here they were, fulfilling that prophecy in the most grisly, drawn-out way possible. 

“No,” said James. “I mean out there, in the ice.” 

Francis followed his gaze. The Arctic night, not content to leave a miserable situation well enough alone, had conspired to fill the sky with a grim green aurora, which was reflecting ominously among the jagged ice. It was well known that wearied men could fancy they saw faces among the cavities and swells of the pressure ridges, when the light was upon them. No doubt James was fancying that very thing, icy skulls staring at him, and him alone, through the monstrous landscape. _“James,”_ he whispered. “They’re gone now. They’ll not haunt you. I promise. I’ll stay with you, if you like.” He wrapped both arms around his friend, finally, and James tilted his head into his shoulder. When they separated, James’s face was streaked with fresh tears. Francis quickly brushed them away with both thumbs, before they could freeze to his skin.

“Come back with me,” said Francis, rising and extending his hand. “I’ll walk with you to _Erebus_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wings of a Gull," also called "Wings of a Goney" or "The Weary Whaling Grounds" is a whaling song from the 1840s or 50s. I could not pin down an exact date, but it was too good to pass up. If it was in fact in circulation by the early 1840s, there is a good chance that Alexander McDonald would have heard it on one of the whale ships he served on. 
> 
> "Unseamed from the nave to th' chops" is a quote from _Macbeth_ , referring to a character named Macdonwald. 
> 
> "To form the nucleus of an iceberg" came from a man named Richard King, who reportedly told John Barrow that that was where the Admiralty was sending Franklin. I didn't think Crozier would know the origin of the phrase, but imagined that it might have made its way to him through the grapevine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Francis discovers that James has been withholding some important information. They are adorable even when arguing, and John Bridgens is a saint.

“What are you doing here, Francis?” 

They were in _Erebus_ ’s great cabin, and James was standing with his arms folded, having finished lighting the lamps. Francis was leaning on the wall by the door, removing his outer layers, focused entirely on the task of being as warm and dry as possible, as soon as possible. 

They had walked back to the ship with barely a word passing between them. As they walked, James seemed to become more collected and alert, but also markedly more irritable. He had probably begun processing other things than grief and shock, Francis considered, and was realizing just how exhausted he was, mentally and physically. When they had boarded the ship and gone below, they had found the vessel unusually, but unsurprisingly quiet. John Bridgens was still up, though, talking in hushed tones with Doctor Goodsir, for whom he had recently volunteered to act as assistant. He had stood up and hurried to the door when he heard the two men approaching. “Wonderful to see you back, Sir,” he said. “And Captain Crozier,” he nodded. “Is there anything I can—”

Both men spoke at once. James tried to dismiss him, beginning, “No, thank you. I am headed only—.” Francis, however, with his louder voice, had started, “If it isn’t too much trouble—.” The captains glared at each other. This was, of course, no place to argue. But an unspoken argument seemed to pass between them nonetheless, which Francis had clearly won, either through the expressive raising of one eyebrow, or on merit of being senior officer. Meanwhile, Bridgens showed no sign of thinking this was an unusual method of communication between ships’ captains. Francis had, in the end, managed to ask Bridgens to fetch a basin of water for washing. There was no point in going to bed dirty and reeking of smoke, and worse.

_Francis. What are you doing here?_

“Oh,” Francis said, his voice inscrutable, giving up on the impossible task trying to pry his feet from his boots while standing. “I heard you were looking for volunteers to berth on _Erebus_. Perhaps I’m here to volunteer. Don’t have many fond memories on _Terror_ of late.”

“Oh, _Christ_ ,” James hissed and rolled his eyes. “Really, why are you still here? And why are you undressing in my cabin?” 

A sigh. “Honestly James, I should have thought it was obvious. You helped take care of me while I was ill; you were there when I needed you most urgently. Now clearly, you are in need of someone to fill a similar role, and I have no intention of leaving you alone.” 

“But I wish to be left alone.”

“Tell that to yourself half an ago on the ice. I have walked you back here, we are close to being warm, finally, and I am not about to leave and freeze again. Not, at least, until I am certain that you are in a more fit state.”

“What the hell does that mean?” 

“Well. For one thing, you haven’t taken off your coat or your wig, and you’re still wearing the most motley assortment of clothes the Arctic has ever seen. If you’re like the rest of us, your clothes are soaked in your own frozen sweat under there, and you’re going to freeze as you thaw out.” 

“That’s because you’re here, bothering me.” 

“Good God James, just…. Give me your coat.” He walked across the cabin, and held out his arm with a pointed look. Grudgingly but obligingly James stood, and thrust the required article at Francis, who went to hang it over a chair. “Now off with—”

“I know, I know,” James growled. He sat down again and yanked off his boots, with considerable difficulty. 

Francis took the opportunity to do the same for himself, and began stripping off layers of stockings. “The stockings too, James. We have to be certain you didn’t get frostbitten out there after all.” 

“I can feel my feet just fine.” 

“Off! And then—” 

“Oh, good Christ. Jesus and Lord above, Francis, alright, I take your point. I’ll strip bare if it will make you give me a moment’s peace.” 

“Well, you don’t have to…” Francis began, but stopped short, pursed his lips, and nodded once. He took the first pair of now-discarded stockings from James’s hand. Then he went to the stove and busied himself with getting a fire going; hopefully, he could get this damn room somewhat warmer, and their clothing drier.

When he turned around, James was sitting at the table in his trousers, shirt and jumper, knees bent high to prop his bare feet on a second chair, which had been covered in his coat, to keep them off the freezing floor. He had one elbow on the table, and his head was tilted sideways to lean his forehead into his hand, but he was watching Francis intently. His face was covered in grime and his hair disheveled. He looked honestly like a chimney-sweep from some dreary illustrated novel. Francis’s heart dropped. James would look graceful no matter what he was doing, even draping himself, exhausted, across two chairs and a table, but his aristocratic bearing contrasted with his tattered appearance and air of complete dejection threatened to rip the soul from out of Francis’s chest. 

“Will this do?” 

Francis was suddenly at a loss for how to proceed, but managed to draw his gaze back to James’s eyes and mutter, “For now.”

“Now will you not leave?” asked James, not shifting his position at all. 

“Not yet,” Francis said, attempting to work his voice up to a somewhat cheerful tone. “Are you...more comfortable...now?” 

James’s eyebrows shot up, fairly disappearing behind his hand. “Francis, please. Stop.” 

“Well then at least let me see that.” 

“What?” 

“What?” Francis echoed, and nearly rolled his eyes. “You know, for someone with such a flair for the dramatic you are remarkably bad at disguising your intentions at times. You’re not hiding anything. You had blood on your face and now you are leaning into your hand in a most convenient manner. Did something strike you in the...madness…?” 

“I have a headache, Francis.”

“I’m sure you do. Now how were you injured? We’ll need to get it seen to. If you’ve had a blow to the head at least that would explain why you’re acting so damned strange. Come,” he said, walking around the table and reaching as if to turn James’s face towards him. James swatted at him with his free hand. “It’s nothing.” 

“Good God, James, what is wrong with you? Now that I’m worried, let me—” he reached to grab the other hand away from James’s face. James swatted his hand away again, and jerked himself backward at the same time, which only had the effect of throwing him off balance. He dropped his feet to the floor, hissed at the sudden sensation of cold there, and was finally caught by not one, but both arms. He glared at Francis in a way he had not done since that regrettable night that he had stormed over to _Terror_ , and instigated the argument that had come to blows. Francis almost backed off in shame. But instead he whispered, “James, it’s fine. It’s only me.” He watched his friend’s face crumple in a most inexplicable way. 

Parted on the side as always, James’s hair was falling into his left eye, and Francis reached up to push it out of the way. He wrinkled his brow in confusion. There seemed to be nothing there. No bruise, or gash or anything, just… _Christ_. 

 

Francis’s hand twitched and he threaded his fingers through James’s hair again, pulling more of it back. The man’s damned scalp was bleeding. Not from any wound, but… _through the follicles of his hair._

“Oh.” Francis stammered. “Ah. Oh, _James_. When…?” 

James stood up then, freezing floor or no, and pushed the hand away from his face. His eyes were both piercing and shimmering at the same time. “Well now you bloody well know, don’t you? And now if you’re satisfied, if you’re done with your _fucking_ curiosity, you can get the hell out of my cabin. I tried to get you to leave earlier and now…and… oh, just _get of my ship!_ ”

Francis reeled. “James, I...what?” 

“Get. Off. M—oh, _fuck_.” He collapsed back down into the chair and put his feet back up on the somewhat warmer coat, curling his toes into the heavy wool material. He put both arms on the table this time and dropping his face into both palms, digging the tips of his fingers into his forehead. He probably hadn’t been lying about having a headache, Francis considered. Probably a horrendous one, too. After…everything. 

Since James was not at the moment actively objecting to his presence, Francis crossed the room again, grabbed the stockings that he had placed on top of the stove, and tossed them on the table. “You can have those back now. They should be warm.” 

James gave him half a glance through his fingers, but made no move. 

“If you don’t put them on, I shall have to do it for you.” 

There was a muffled snorting sound from James’s hands. “Try.” 

“Is that a threat? What, are you going to kick me if I do? Can’t say you’re not entitled to it. Just… be considerate of your aim, I suppose.” He wasn’t sure if James had been serious, but supposed he might as well keep to his word. It was better than standing awkwardly and waiting for James to instigate a discussion that he clearly had no intention of having. He pushed the coat-bearing chair backwards, and sat down. He had to lift James’s legs out of the way to do it. He couldn’t say he’d ever had a fellow officer’s feet in his lap before, but after the condition in which James had seen him, when he had come to visit him during his illness, the intimacy didn’t feel particularly without precedent. And clearly, the man was not in any mood to take care of himself at the moment, so desperate measures had to be allowed. 

James dropped his head onto the table, and Francis did wonder how he was managing to stay awake at all. 

It was, he found, more than a bit cumbersome to put stockings over another person’s feet, especially when the person in question was a well-proportioned man who was putting no effort into cooperating whatsoever. The poor man had finally been sapped of whatever energy he had had left, worn out by his attempts to drive Francis away. And, Francis supposed, the stress of concealing the truth. How long had he been like this, too stubbornly proud to admit that he had needs, and was susceptible to illness, like everyone else?

Finally, Francis got the second of the stockings into position, and heard James hum in appreciation of the warmth as he smoothed the material over his calf. Not entirely sure how to extract himself from this position with any dignity, now, he let his hand linger in its progress. What a strange arrangement this would be, he thought, for the steward to walk in to when he finally returned with the water. Of course Bridgens would be the last man to judge. But still, at the thought of being faced with such an explanation, Francis reached out awkwardly, squeezed James’s knee by way of a signal, stood up and returned the chair to its original purpose. “There,” he said. “Better?” 

No answer.

“And I’ll thank you for not kicking me, after all.” He tried to smile, but it came off halfheartedly. 

Still nothing. James’s face was mostly obscured by his arms, crossed on the table, but Francis could still see one of his eyes, which was closed and partially covered by a stray lock of hair.

“James.” He said softly. “Are you awake?” 

The visible eyebrow raised itself and dropped back down. 

“Ah.” He ran a hand across his friend’s left shoulder, and pressed the heel of it firmly into the space between his shoulder blades. “James,” he said again, and waited. “James!” 

The man finally rolled his head to the side and his eyes flicked open. “Leave off, Francis, I’m tired.”

“I know you are, but you can’t bloody well sleep out here. When Bridgens comes back, you’ll wash all that grime off yourself, and then I’ll think about letting you go to bed.” 

James groaned and pushed himself up with one hand. He tilted his head back and shook the hair out of his eyes. “Christ, you’re incorrigible tonight.” 

“Aye. Now, tell me. Does anyone else...know? About…?” 

James shot him a nasty look.

“You’ll have to come out with this, brother. It’s not to be trifled with. Now did you talk to any of the doctors?” 

James’s face fell. _Oh_ , Francis thought. It was a wrong question. What good would the answer be now, with Stanley, McDonald, and Peddie all sent to their icy graves? 

“Um...does Goodsir know, then?”

James’s mouth was a thin, tight line. “No.” 

“...anyone?”

“ _No_.” James waved his hand carelessly. “Well, Bridgens of course. The man sees me every morning and night so he was bound to notice anyway.” 

“And you made him vow secrecy, I gather. Damn the man, he should have come to me…” 

“Bridgens is an honourable man, and he respects my wishes. Unlike some I could mention.” James glared pointedly.

“Good God, man. I know now, and it’s a damn good thing I do. You can leave off trying to make me feel guilty for having noticed what would have become obvious…” _Oh_. He stopped in the midst of the thought. James’s eyes had gone wide with something that looked rather like fear. Oh, Christ.

“...obvious?” 

“Obvious to me, I mean.” In his mind he was grasping for words, but hoped it wasn’t coming through in his voice. “ Not to everyone. Since I...see you most frequently.” Francis cleared his throat. “How long?” he rasped out. 

“Fine, you’ll have it out of me yet,” James sighed. “Two weeks or so. Since we started...planning Carnivale.” 

Francis let out a long, exasperated sound. “Oh, for all love, why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell _me_? Me of all people, James.” 

Another exasperated sound, from James this time. “I was _busy_! There were bigger things to attend to on this expedition. There always are. And the doctors were always occupied with...You were ill! What would you have had me say?” He laced his voice with sarcasm. _“Oh, good morning, my dear Francis, how are you feeling? By the way I have scurvy and now that you know I’m dying we can move on to the other news that—"_

“Jesus, James! That’s not what I—”

He was interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door, and John Bridgens finally appeared with the basin of water. Bridgens cocked an eyebrow and looked like he was about to say something—no doubt about the strange tableau before him, James sprawled in his two chairs, looking wide-eyed at Francis, who was running both hands through his hair in exasperation—but thought better of it. Instead he deposited the basin on the table, on the side facing the stove, collected himself in the way that only Bridgens could, and asked professionally, simply, “will there be anything else you require, Sirs?”

Francis removed one of his hands from his hair and scrubbed the other down his face. “No, thank you, John. You’ve done more than enough for everyone tonight. Go see if you can get some rest finally. And tell the same to Doctor Goodsir—the two of you must be asleep on your feet.”

“Thank you, Sir. The same to you both, if I may say so.” His eyes flicked from Francis to James, and back, with a hint of what Francis suspected was a knowing look, but of course with Bridgens it was always impossible to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, James likes to imitate Francis for dramatic effect. It comes across as harsh, sometimes ("get off my ship"), but don't worry, he does it sweetly too. 
> 
> According to the TV show, there was a lovely oriental rug under the table in _Erebus_ 's stern cabin. I got rid of it for the purposes of the stockings scene, and I'm not sorry. Perhaps James had moved it into his sleeping quarters for insulation?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Francis make the best of a bad situation. It's G-rated fluff.

When Bridgens left, Francis just looked at James and nodded in the direction of the basin. Clearly deciding that cooperating was better than continuing any argument, let alone any _conversation_ in which he’d be expected to give details, James stood and without a word pulled the jumper and then his shirt over his head. There was a pink scar on his upper arm on the left side, Francis saw, recalling James’s oft-repeated story of how he had been wounded in the war in China. There was another scar on his chest, the work of the same bullet. Properly healed and whole, with no signs of being affected by the illness, yet…but there was a rushing sound rising in Francis’s ears, and he tore his gaze away, willing himself to stop thinking about the awful possibilities of what lay ahead. 

After staring for some time, in any direction other than at James, he heard the other man go into his private quarters, and reemerge a few minutes later. He finally turned his head, and saw that James had changed into a full set of clean clothes. He looked much more like himself in his favored cream-coloured jumper, rather than the heavier, much more sailor-like thing he had been wearing earlier. There was no more dirt on his face, nor blood, thank God. He had made some effort to run water through his hair, but had apparently given up on trying to tame it. He was also holding a pile of other clothes. It turned out to be another shirt and jumper, which he pushed across the table in Francis’s direction. 

“Here,” he said, somewhat gruffly. “You can borrow these. They should fit. If I can’t get you to leave, I can at least offer you the option of being somewhat cleaner and not smelling of smoke anymore.” 

Francis gave a small smile, recognizing James’s implication that he was now allowed to stay, after all. “Thank you.” 

The jumper in question was blue wool, knitted in a cable pattern. It was, like the one James had been wearing earlier, certainly more fitting for a sailor than a commanding officer, and Francis wondered where he had even gotten the things. He had certainly never worn them in public. It was warm, though, and after so many years in the Arctic Francis was feeling increasingly uninterested in material displays of rank. 

Sitting at the table, after Francis too had washed and changed, James looked him over with just the slightest hint of amusement, eyes flitting between his face and the ridiculously coloured jumper. They sat there for several minutes, unspeaking, enjoying, at least in Francis’s case, the sensation of finally being somewhat clean, and warm, and _safe._

“I apologise,” James said, suddenly, unprompted. 

Francis looked at him, questioning.

“I didn’t intend to lash out at you earlier. It’s just…I didn’t want to be thinking of myself. It doesn’t feel right. Not now. I know you’re probably going to laugh and say something about how I’m always thinking of myself, but…”

“James.” Francis cut him off. “I forgive you. Actually, no—there is nothing that requires forgiveness. You have every right to be concerned about your own well-being. You do, I understand, happen to be a man.” 

James nodded, looked away. He went mute again for several minutes. 

“I’m frightened, Francis,” he said softly into the silent room. It sounded as if he mostly meant to convince himself of the fact.

“Frightened,” he said again, scoffing at the word. “And I...I who had convinced myself that I never knew fear! I’ve never once in my life,” he said, voice mounting, and punctuating his words by slamming the side of his hand against the table, “let myself believe I was truly frightened... about anything the world had ever done to me.” He had one elbow braced on the table and leaned his his face into his upturned hand, to run his fingers through his hair, unable to stop himself from glancing at those fingers for any sign of blood as he drew them back. “I was so... careful...about how I faced the world. I had no empty time. No room to...be afraid...”

James stood up and walked to the stove, bracing himself with a hand against the low timbers over his head, staring into the flames. His left hand twitched at his side. “In China, I was not afraid to be wounded. It may have been youth but I truly thought of the shot that killed Nelson—I know you find that conceited and intolerable but you’ll hear me out.” Francis had no intention of interrupting him, but of course, as was becoming his habit, James was not looking behind him to judge that fact for himself. 

“Christ, I thought of how he took it,” James said, “and knowing that I was not so badly off I persevered without fear. I felt invincible then, like I could take on anything if I had the power within me to fight back. My enemy always had a physical form, and was mortal. And besides I thought there was nothing that British ingenuity and medicine couldn’t overcome. The Arctic was another matter, of course, but I thought I could...well I thought I could handle the bloody _weather_.” He laughed at himself in a way that was only a step away from a sob. “I was so...so ready to prove that I was... _every bit_ the British man, the British sailor. Why do you think I called myself Tom Bowling in that bloody poem I know you hate so much? Why do you think tonight I chose my disguise as…?” 

He choked on that train of thought, and rallied to tackle the issue from another angle. “I was supposed to _be_ something here, something in particular. The exemplar of a British sailor, but gentlemanly. Before coming here I had read all the memoirs of great explorers, and if Ross the elder _and_ younger could survive so could I, couldn’t I? British ships, British clothing, British provisions... nature could be conquered like any enemy, couldn’t it? But this is... this... I thought there was nothing... “ his voice faltered and he had to struggle to spit the words out. “I thought there was nothing...from which British precautions and medicine... _could not save us_.” By this point his voice was only a whisper, and he was blinking rapidly as he stared, still, into the fire.

Francis was wide-eyed and infuriatingly lost for words. It had always been abundantly clear to him that James was the kind of man who carefully constructed his public image, and he had recently come to suspect that such self-fashioning stemmed from James’s need to convince himself of his own worth. But James had never suggested that out loud. He had always been so outwardly self-confident. The only time Francis had seen him falter was on the day that Sir John had died; but then, who among them had not faltered that day? 

The idea of James Fitzjames being struck down by something so mundane as illness, or so unglamourous as _scurvy_ , had been so absurd that even Francis had never considered it. God, the man had even convinced his commanding officer that he was immortal. No wonder James himself was coming undone at the thought. Francis was torn between going to him and gathering him into his arms on the spot, or lying to him that things were not so bad as they seemed, or clapping him on the shoulder like a junior officer and telling him to take courage, or telling him uncharitably to calm down. Confused in his duty as a friend, comrade-in-arms, and commanding officer, Francis honestly wanted nothing more than to kick himself for his own indecision. But he was exhausted, grieving, and shocked on far too many matters for one evening, and could only settle for ineloquently spewing forth whichever of his battling emotions was on the tip of his tongue at the precise moment he opened his mouth. By now he had given up on trying to make James move anywhere he had not explicitly chosen to be, and thus had no hope of making him come back to the table. Clumsily, he grabbed one of the chairs and plopped it down behind James.

“James. Sit down, for God’s sake.” He waved his hand at the chair. Definitely _not_ what he had intended to say. It came across more gruffly than he had meant it, but perhaps he had managed to sound just the right combination of exasperated and concerned, since James actually did as he was told. He slumped down in the chair, placing his elbows on his legs and dropping his head into his hands.

“And stop staring at the bloody fire,” Francis snapped, slamming his own chair down next to the first, and positioning himself sideways in it to face the other man. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, James. My damn temper still gets the best of me.” James snorted. “It’s been a long day, obviously. Two days, I suppose. Or is it three? I’m not even sure anymore.” He let his own head drop into his hand and massaged his temples with a thumb and middle finger. “And I don’t think you’re conceited by the way. How any man takes courage in adversity is not for me to judge. And to be honest, others have been far more reckless in their choice of character models than you.” James looked up at this, and raised an eyebrow. “Oh good, you’re looking at me now.”

He reached out and took James’s right hand, since it was now free from propping up his face. “Look, I understand. I’ve spent what must be a dozen years in the ice by now, so by God I understand. You were new to the discovery service when you joined us, and you’ve been made to face the worst of it already. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But there’s time. Our best laid plans…Well, they’ve gone to shit is what they’ve done, and I’ll not deny it, but there’s time. I said I’d build us a way out of here, and I won’t go back on my promise. We’re leaving this blasted place, we’re going to find game, and rescue. And you,” he clapped his hand on James’s shoulder and then poking at him with one finger, “are not going to die.”

“Oh, God,” James said wryly. “I must really be done for if you’re the one preaching optimism.” 

“Well, you may call it optimism, but for now I’ll call it survival. You said you’ve read all the Arctic memoirs; perhaps I should regale you with my own sometime. I’ve spent winter after winter with Parry and Ross himself—James Ross, that is—so I may know a thing or two about survival. You have an Arctic veteran before you this very moment. Now tell me, have I ever died?” His eyebrow shot up and he pushed himself up straighter in his seat, adjusting his position with a hand on the back of his chair. 

James looked incredulous. “You sound like me.”

“Well, _one_ of us has to be you on this expedition. If it’s not going to be you I’ll have to presume it’s my duty to fill the role. I doubt I’ll look half so well doing it, though.”

“Stop it, Francis.”

Francis sighed, and swung his legs around so he was facing the stove, as James was, with his legs stretched out before him, and his hands awkwardly folded in his lap. Meanwhile James had tilted his head forward and was running his newly-freed hand over the back of his neck in an attempt to relieve the tension there. Francis looked at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“James?”

“Hm?” 

“You know I don’t blame you for anything you’re feeling, right? You’ve had to command this entire expedition while I was busy being a dreadful invalid, and you were doing a stunning job of it, I may add. You kept me company, you oversaw the transfer of men between the ships, you made plans for our walk out…And there for a while I know you thought you were going to have to lead everyone out of here by yourself. Not that having me back is much better than not having me here at all—” 

“False,” James interjected, in a shockingly good imitation of Francis’s own accent when riled. 

Francis cocked his head, and paused for only a second. Did James just try to make a joke? Now? He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, but he cleared his throat awkwardly and went on, “It…didn’t look like I was going to make it, and I know you had taken all matters into your own hands without complaint. Now here I am again, and hopefully you’ve felt some of that burden drop from your shoulders, but now there is grief to attend to, and you’re exhausted, and you’ve held your personal worries back for all this time…how you held out so long will always amaze me. It’s a great deal to bear, James. For any man. I don’t blame you for anything you feel. I just hope you’ll see that you don’t have to blame _yourself_ for anything that has happened.” 

James was still bent forward, his hair and arm largely obscuring the downturned corners of his mouth and the deep lines on his brow. 

“Oh good Lord, James, I...” he reached over and removed James’s hand from his neck, replaced it with his own. With his thumb and middle finger he pressed gently into the curves of his shoulders, and slowly moved his hand up and back down the sides of his neck. He began working his fingers in small circles in an upward pattern, and pushed his forefinger into the indentation where the spine met the base of the skull. James groaned and leaned backwards into the touch, as Francis increased his pressure. How fragile the body was, Francis thought, with such reminders of mortality always present at the correct angle. He could feel the knobs of James’s neck under his fingers, and as he wrapped his hand to the side, the sharp edge of his jawbone…He shook himself. He did not want to be thinking any more about skeletons tonight, least of all his friend’s, not after what they had all seen. He grasped for something to say, longing to break the tension before James noticed it himself. 

To his surprise, it was James who broke the silence, and not on a much less grisly tone. “I did think we would lose you, you’re right. I couldn’t…I couldn’t bear it, Francis, and if you must know I wasn’t “holding out” very well at all. I dreamed of it sometimes. It was horrible…And then, I could have lost you again at Carnivale…” 

“No you couldn’t have.” 

“What?” 

“I had to get you out. I wouldn’t let you die, so we both had to get out. Same as I’m going to get you out of—” he waved his hand in the general direction of the ice, through the window, “here.” 

“Oh, right, I forgot. I’m not going to die because my captain says so.” 

“Correct. I will not allow it, on strict orders. James Fitzjames, you may not die. Permission not granted.” 

He tilted his hand backwards and combed his fingers through James’s hair, stretching them apart to separate the knots that had formed there. It was an absurd sight: James, washed and wearing clean clothing, but his hair an absolute disaster. 

“How is it you have such a command over life and death, then? You battled your way through the last few weeks, and you sit here now, probably in better shape than I, and also you show no signs of illness...do you?” 

“Jesus, no! And stop scrutinizing my hair. I can tell where you’re looking. It’s gone grey, and I have much less of it than you; you wouldn’t have to look hard to tell if anything was wrong.” 

James pursed his lips. “Ah!” 

“What?” Francis steadied his hand, which was currently stuck in a particularly matted section of hair at the back of James’s neck. 

“You’ll rip my hair out before the scurvy does.” 

“Oh.” He bit back a laugh at James’s morbid attempt at humour. “Do you want me to stop?” 

A beat of silence, and then, “No.”

“I can find a comb…?” 

“ _No!_ ” James swatted at Francis’s leg half-heartedly with the back of his hand, lingered there, then turned the hand over and squeezed Francis’s knee.

Francis extricated his fingers with difficulty and went back to running his thumb up and down the back of James’s neck instead. “No, I am not ill. Born to be hanged, I suppose.” He did laugh, now, out loud. “Probably by the Admiralty when we get back.” 

James shot him an accusing look. “That isn’t funny. And you know as well as I that no officer has been executed in this century. Least of all for leading his men to safety after abandoning ship. You’ll probably be knighted. Look at the Rosses.” 

“They’ll knight you first.” 

“Fr—” 

“Yes, they will. Look at you. I mean,” he squinted and dragged his fingers from James’s left ear through the length of his hair. “Look at you on a better day.” He grinned widely.

“Francis!!” James was exhausted, finally beginning to relax after Francis’s attentions, and was clearly verging on sleep-deprived hysterics.

Francis chuckled, looked around the room, and suddenly snorted as if something particularly amusing had occurred to him. 

“Oh no,” James groaned.

“They should have seen you as Britannia.”

“Oh _no_ , God, why are you talking about that, now?” 

“I wish I’d known you were planning that earlier. I would have willed myself to recover faster so I might have suggested—” 

“Please don’t start thinking of things that might have been. I was almost content here. After everything…” 

“I might have suggested we lead a dance, among the men.” 

The room was suddenly silent.

“...What?” 

James’s tone was blank, more a statement than a question.

Francis grinned. “It’s tradition in the polar regions. I said I ought to tell you some of my stories, so there’s one for you.” 

“...What?” James repeated, an incredulous statement, with eyebrows raised. 

“Dancing. In Antarctica.” 

“You,” he said. “You, Francis world-be-damned Crozier, _dance_?” James’s mouth was twitching. 

“Why yes, in fact, I do, and I was considered to be a quite desirable partner at the time. You can ask my lady of the occasion when we get back to London, yourself.” 

“Oh, and who, pray, may that have been?” James was struggling to contain himself. “I would have suspected Thomas…Well, either Thomas. They both dote on you and I’m not sure anyone else could handle you and your eyebrows staring at them for an entire waltz. But they’re both here. Good lord!” 

“Blanky was not there,” Francis said tersely, feigning offence, “and Jopson is certainly far too shy.” 

James looked at him expectantly. 

“It was Ross.” 

“R….. What???!”

“Well, James Ross obviously. His uncle wasn’t there either.” 

“I know that! Of course it wasn’t the elder—Oh…oh Good Lord, Francis!” James had tilted forward and was now burying his face in his hands, laughing with all the exhausted hysterics he had been containing earlier. “Oh, you and Ja—Christ, you’re both so serious. How...?” He broke off into a fit of laughter again. And he positively howled as a new thought struck him. “Was Ross dressed as Britannia too?” 

 

Francis flushed red and fought back his own laugher. James had suggested even more ridiculous alternatives than he had expected. In a strained voice he explained, “No, he wasn’t. He had brought the most fashionable dress to be found in the city of Hobart, Van Diemen’s Land, of course. The man is nothing if not the height of fashion.” James yelped from his contorted position. “And what is so funny, anyway?” Francis asked, affecting a serious disposition. “Are you suggesting that you, as the ruler of the waves, could not lower yourself to dance with a graying Irishman, sailor though he is in your service?” 

A long wordless, cry. “Stop it, Francis, you’re going to kill me on the spot!” 

“Or are you worried to be the second James of Her Majesty’s Ship _Erebus_ I’ve asked to dance in the ice?” 

Too far gone for words now, James careened sideways into Francis, who caught him up in both his arms against his chest. Francis was himself laughing now, although he had maintained a far greater degree of control over himself. He hauled James close against his hip, and ran his hands along James’s shaking arms. The man was gasping for breath and his head was thrown back against Francis’s shoulder, eyes closed and tears streaming from them. James managed to slowly recover some of his composure, but opened his eyes to see Francis grinning down at him still, and was seized by another fit of laughter. He bent at the hips and tried to grab at the edge of his chair to right himself, but Francis had him held fast, and besides he was too disoriented to make any real effort. 

Finally, being careful not to look Francis in the eye, James managed to sit himself up, and scramble properly back into his own chair, wiping tears and stray hair from his eyes. “Lord, Francis. Good…good Lord.” Slowly, looking only at his feet, he shuffled into a more dignified version of his previous position: his head on Francis’s shoulder, Francis’s hand on his back. At last he managed to look up, biting his lip just to be certain he didn’t lose composure again. “I should have liked to see you dance, after all,” he said. “I also could have been persuaded to dance with you, now that I’ve been forewarned.” 

“You’ll get your chance, James,” said Francis, running his hand along James’s back to grasp his left shoulder. “I’m sure we will be forced to attend many dances when we return. You won’t be able to dance with me, I don’t suppose, unless you manage a particularly clever disguise…” he grinned at his own joke, “but you can see me with others and tease me to your heart’s contentment. You and Ross can even commiserate about me.” 

“I should have liked that too.” James smiled, genuinely. “I wish…” 

Francis cut him off. “Hm, James. And you will, I promise.” He ran his hand over James’s arm, tracing the familiar patterns of his knitted jumper, coming to rest just below his shoulder and squeezing gently. He reached around with his other hand, and swept James’s hair to one side. “There’s time,” he said, and leaned down to kiss his hairline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep borrowing quotes from the show, and I should apologise, but they're just too good! "Permission not granted!" is in my top 10 lines from the show. 
> 
> And see, I told you James would do a sweeter imitation of Francis here. 
> 
> Fitzjames wrote an epic poem (of terrible quality) about his service in the Opium War, and used the pseudonym Tom Bowline. I believe this to be a reference to the wildly popular song "Poor Tom Bowling," and so I used that spelling when James explains his ideas of what a naval officer is supposed to be. James reads WAY too many books and too much poetry for his own good, obviously. 
> 
> The reference to Crozier dancing with Ross (who was dressed in drag) at an Antarctic New Years' carnivale is real. They were in Antarctica for four different winters, but this was 1842. A crew member wrote that Crozier "stepped out" with "Miss Ross."


End file.
